Elysia Puzzle: She Teaches Me

Things are so different now.

At times-in certain moments, I feel like a puzzle piece from a separate picture puzzle box is being jammed into the puzzle I have been caring for and overseeing for years. This puzzle of mine- I know every piece that fits together. I have grown to know the shades of color and bits of images forming. I know them intimately. I can remember the days when they found their partner pieces allowing this bigger image to flash its more total self before my eyes- before my heart.
Yes. I remember those coming together days like a parade.
The drums pounding that marching song as candy is tossed, whirling by my head while little children dance and smile. Then the streets clear. Folding lawn chairs carried on home. Just the candy wrappers left lying on the ground.
That alone-ness opens your eyes to the remaining pieces. You can clearly see what is before you without the distractions. No hoopla to entertain you. I find I am grateful to the kind tap on my shoulder bringing me back to the stripped down moments-- the awaiting of the coming together moments. These pieces standing in line for their placement, their parades, and candy wrappers.
My fingers trace these unplaced pieces. Inside there is some level of recognition. Their awkward shape is just an introduction really. This unfamiliar image is a fraction of my life. I know this foreign fragment. I feel it churn in the tunnels of my heart.

I don't know.

My daughter shrugs her shoulders, and her eyes move away. She turns under the blanket, a torn and tattered handmade quilt. The large yellow quilt with green yarn tied inside the squares. All the yarn dangles from the knots. All the bows have come undone.
She turns away then back. Her eyes searching mine. I find myself fighting to keep the window open with her.

And it's the same struggle resurfacing. Let her see. Should I let her see inside of me? She already does. NO! Protect her from the unresolved trash and pain in my mind. She doesn't deserve that.
So, I smile in that moment, and I am conscious of the forced effort of it. One of those unfamiliar familiar puzzle pieces is tricking me. I try to place it there in that empty spot, but it doesn't belong.
So I kiss her sweet forehead. "You know a lot of things. You know a lot more than your mama. You teach me so much. You know?"
She reaches up and hugs me.

It seems like it's either the warmth or the numbing spot. I try to shake off the numb. I feel like a bat or a whale-- I send out a heart cry to get some echolocation reading. Where am I again?

Is that puzzle piece I saw in the corner one that belongs in my puzzle? The colors seem brighter. Even the proportions and shape seem different somehow... does that piece belong with my set? Did it come from my box?

Have her puzzle pieces gotten mixed in with mine?

I see it now. They are rising up. It's not two flat separate pictures full of their own pieces.

Somehow, our boxes were dumped out together. Somehow, our puzzles are mixed into this quilted pieced together thing.

Ours is now a beautiful sculpture with a front, a back, sides that form a picture to touch and move around.  My eyes and body are required to travel the shape of it. My heart hears its voice that yearns for creation. It is unlike the original understanding I had. It's unlike the map. Different from everyone's.

Today it's not a puzzle. It's a masterpiece.

I love you.

I know.

ADD Silver Lining

In the second grade, I became this voracious reader.
I couldn't read enough.
Mrs. Randolph fanned the flame.
So wherever you are, thank you for that.
In the fifth grade, I began to write.
Ms. Forrest and Sara Jo were key players this time.
I've told them both how important they were then and thanked them. Sara still encourages me.
She challenges everything about me and makes me a better person.
Sara and I used to create "feminist manuscripts" in her attic.
We outlined the rules for members of our organization and discussed what was most important. Freedom. We somehow knew that freedom and love were most important in life. Remembering our 10 year old selves, I smile.
What did we know about oppression?
Enough to be filled with seeds of indignation.
I can vaguely see the cover of our work.
EVE. Maybe the cigarettes influenced us.
Maybe the fall of mankind linked to a woman was a seed.
Maybe we were just born a little different and lucky enough to find each other.
We have this overpowering need to observe, learn, and set things aright.
By aright, I mean, bring love to those hurting.
Be assurance to those crumbling under the heaviness of uncertainty.
Be love.
After journalism, philosophy, teaching English as a Second Language, years of scribbled poems, second round advancing in writing competitions, and the huge variety of life lessons and people packed deep inside my heart and soul; I am doing the thing I have always dreamed of; I am writing with seriousness. I am doing the most horrendous thing possible, disciplining myself. I hate the structure, the repetitiveness of sitting in this one spot day after day, but I treasure the words that come from it. I will continue along this road. I will push when I am tired and disgusted. I will write damnit.
I have to pursue this dream whole-heartedly and see where it takes me. It may only serve to be the therapy I need. If so, then a temporary scratching out the things wriggling inside of me it will be.

My Mama likes my writing. So there's another plus.